


shut me up

by cumaeansibyl



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Fingering, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misophonia, Negotiations, Overstimulation, Panic Attacks, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prostate Massage, Prostate Milking, Sensory Overload, brief mention of bdsm, brief mention of dissociation, not the fun kind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:27:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29884560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cumaeansibyl/pseuds/cumaeansibyl
Summary: Crowley has a nasty panic attack. Aziraphale helps him to find quiet.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 115
Collections: Society for the Promotion of Underappreciated Sex Acts (Good Omens Local 666)





	shut me up

**Author's Note:**

> Please mind the tags - Crowley's having a panic attack with sensory overload, which may not be fun to read about. It's hard for him to communicate, but it becomes clear they've negotiated in advance for when this happens.

“What do you need tonight?” Aziraphale asks.

Sometimes when he gets like this Crowley needs to be fucked long and hard and steady, Aziraphale a comforting weight bearing down on him, pressing him into the mattress until he goes limp with utter relief. Sometimes he needs to be bent over the nearest piece of sturdy furniture for Aziraphale to beat the holy hell out of him, heavy, slapping blows hard enough to drive out the wordless chaos in his head. Tonight he needs —

“Quiet,” Crowley says. His hands are shaking and he hasn’t removed his sunglasses. Even the dim evening light of the bookshop is too bright for him, everything is bright and loud and cold. “Quiet.”

Aziraphale takes him upstairs and undresses him with practiced care, his fingers deft and almost impersonal, but even as gentle as he is it’s almost more than Crowley can stand. Each shift of fabric scrapes Crowley’s skin raw, the bedside lamp scorches his eyes, all the traffic in London’s been rerouted between his ears. Something’s rotting in an alleyway nearby, he can smell it under a burning topnote of acid, tannins and perfumes and dogshit and weed and centuries of human stink. Aziraphale bundles him into bed (lavender, linen) and sets about removing his own clothes, folding and smoothing (rasp of fingers on velvet, on cashmere), taking his time. His fussy little routine makes Crowley feel — not calm yet, not even a little, but like maybe he can see calm somewhere in the distance.

The first time Crowley came to him, nonverbal and shaking, too desperate to stand on his pride any longer, Aziraphale had thought he’d come untethered, gotten lost in the dark. Not a bad guess with next to nothing to go on, but it’s not so easy for Crowley to escape himself when it hurts the most — he’s always here, times like this he’s _too here,_ he’s on the edge of overstimulation just from being in his own head. The world’s immediately present, in his face, down his throat, he’s drowning in it, air raid sirens like Death’s wingbeat over the rooftops, danger death destruction, _don’t speak or they’ll hear you, don’t move or they’ll find you, you won’t see them coming, not until it’s too late_ — 

“Budge over, my dear,” Aziraphale says over the din in Crowley’s head, and gently bullies him to one side so he can climb into the bed. He turns off the bedside lamp, leaving only a thin line of golden light shining under the door, tinting the darkness with deep warmth. Crowley scrambles up against Aziraphale’s radiant heat, shoving his face into the soft skin of his neck, his breath coming in harsh little whines. He’s freezing, but without the numbness that might blunt the pain of real cold. 

“Shh,” Aziraphale says, folding soft, strong arms around Crowley’s wracked body, pushing his nose into his hair and breathing deep, slowly, slowly. “Shh.” Cradled against the steady heat of Aziraphale’s chest, aching with tension, Crowley struggles to match that rhythm with his own breathing. There’s always a moment when he’s forced his body into compliance but the effects haven’t kicked in yet and he wonders is this the time when it doesn’t work, when nothing works? When it just keeps happening and he has to feel this way forever?

At length, though, it does start to work, enough to be going on with. Crowley shifts, spreading his legs open a little. Aziraphale takes the hint and rolls onto his back, pulling Crowley partially on top of him. He hitches one of Crowley’s knees up with his broad, warm hand, following that lean thigh until he cups Crowley’s buttock, his touch almost hot against the icy skin. 

“Here?” Aziraphale asks. 

Crowley nods and presses further into Aziraphale’s neck, clinging to his shoulders for stability, shivering as the little envelope of heat building under the covers finally starts to sink into him. 

“I know it’s difficult,” Aziraphale says, nudging Crowley’s forehead with his lips and nose, “but I need to hear you just now. Please.”

“Yes,” Crowley says, without lifting his head. “That.”

“Thank you, my dear.” The pad of Aziraphale’s middle finger slides down between Crowley’s cheeks to pet at the soft little pucker there, spreading something thick and slippery, already warm. Crowley makes a little _hh!_ sound and his fingers dig into Aziraphale’s shoulders. The sounds of outside are receding, not leaving him entirely — he’s never been shut into his own head and he doesn’t want to find out what it’s like — but settling back to the right distance. 

“All right?”

Crowley nods, and this time that’s enough. With two fingers, Aziraphale strokes slick warmth over Crowley’s skin, from the delicate stretch of his perineum over his anus and up into his cleft, then back down and up again, a gentle sliding pressure that Crowley feels deep between his hips, easing all the tight little muscles there. He opens his mouth against the softness of Aziraphale’s pulse point and flicks out his snake tongue, smell-tasting the familiar scent that says he’s safe, he’s home, he’s protected. 

Aziraphale shortens his motions, just pressing gentle circles into Crowley’s rim now, pushing a little harder with each orbit until his middle finger slides in to the first knuckle. Crowley’s awareness narrows to where that soft pressure enters his body, out and in again, more slickness now, rubbing half-circles around the tight clenching muscle just inside. He clenches on Aziraphale’s finger, feeling how his muscles seem to draw it further inside, and Aziraphale lets it sink deep into the soft open space inside him, until it just touches the gentle curve in his inner wall. 

Crowley goes _mm_ into his neck, and Aziraphale shifts his body up a little for better access, passing his finger over Crowley’s prostate in a gentle pulsing motion. Crowley feels his cock twitch, pinned between them. It’s not how either of them prefers it, going from zero to penetration in sixty seconds, but tonight he needs _quiet_. _Quiet_ is a focus point to which he can anchor himself, one sensation strong enough to override everything else. Aziraphale’s usual indulgent caresses would leave him confused, unsettled; this slow pressure, not yet pleasure or pain but simply, intensely _there_ , takes up all the room in his head.

Aziraphale draws out, pets Crowley with two fingers now, stroking over the plush creases of his rim, then pushing back in. Crowley breathes deep, his body opening for those thick, gentle fingers as they rotate to stretch him a little wider, quarter turn left, half turn right, rocking further into him by millimeters. All of a sudden the tension runs right out of his shoulders and back and he slumps down on top of Aziraphale like a deflating balloon, possibly a lead one for how heavy he feels, like he doesn’t even have to hold his own against gravity anymore. 

“Oh, _there_ you are,” Aziraphale murmurs in his ear. “That’s right.” He massages Crowley’s prostate with a gentle beckoning motion, in time with his own steady breathing, and Crowley lets himself feel the way his body moves with the rise and fall of Aziraphale’s chest, with the slow push and stretch of his fingers, rocking him like ocean waves. Warmth creeps through him, first soothing his frayed nerves, then gradually winding them again, to much better purpose this time. He pushes his hips against Aziraphale’s belly, feels the downy hair tickling him where he’s still half-soft but swelling, warming.

Crowley’s head weighs three tonnes but he lifts it and catches Aziraphale’s look of rapt concentration, the tensed lips, the little furrow of his eyebrows that tells of the pains he’s taking to make this good. It’s only a glimpse before the angel looks up at him, but that’s even better, his eyes lit up with loving attention. Crowley drops his heavy head for a kiss and Aziraphale parts his lips to receive him, slips his tongue into Crowley’s mouth, free hand coming up to tangle in Crowley’s hair and hold him still. Crowley sucks on Aziraphale’s tongue like he’s forgotten everything he ever knew about kissing, hungry for the soft heat filling his mouth. At some point he must’ve started to cry, or not exactly that, but his face is wet with tears and he can taste them on his lips, their lips. And there’s wetness between their bodies too, he doesn’t get wet as a rule but each rolling stroke of Aziraphale’s fingers pushes out another little pulse, another wave washing him a little further out to sea.

The build is so gradual it seems to start outside of him, like the warmth of Aziraphale’s body spreading through him in slow ripples, rising with every breath. His body goes rigid again but the strain has its own aching sweetness this time, there’s liquid heat coursing under his skin, and for a moment he’s not even sure if he’s on the edge or already tipped over — it’s not like falling or flying, but drifting deep, submerged in pleasure, breathing it deep into his lungs. He’s sobbing outright now but he’s never felt such relief, weak little thrusts of his hips dragging his cock through the growing pool on Aziraphale’s belly as the angel’s fingers work him insistently, still slow but firm and relentless, draining him in long, hot gushes. He didn’t know it could last this long, could take him over like this, empty him so completely. Didn’t know there was this much to come out of him.

Aziraphale eases him down as gently as he’d worked him up, massaging the tender muscles just inside his entrance rather than pulling out right away. Crowley makes soft little syllables into the pillow, too relaxed to quite be called whimpers, and the angel kisses his cheek. “All right, there?” he asks.

“Muh,” Crowley says. “Y’want… words? After _that_?” His mind’s a lot less messy now, but he can’t feel his lips, which is probably fine.

“You know I worry, a bit.” Aziraphale snaps his wet fingers and they become dry, along with the rest of him. “I know we discussed it, but all the same...”

“Ffffft. Fff _ret_. ‘Swhat you do.” Crowley wants very much to explain how silly it is to worry about hurting a demon, and how much he loves that Aziraphale does it anyway; how much it means, after all the times he’s faced this alone, to be held and loved through it; but he’s never been one for words at the best of times. “M’fine... love you,” he manages, which feels like it might be enough after all, and lets himself bask in the perfect security of the moment: nothing’s touching him that isn’t soft and warm, the darkness is comfortable and full of familiar things, and it’s finally, blissfully quiet.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "[Shut Me Up](https://youtu.be/B0AX81gv5aM)" by Mindless Self Indulgence.
> 
> Inspired by a random conversation I wasn't even really a part of, about how people treat fingering as a means to an end and not an end in itself. I feel the same way about hand jobs. Maybe I'll start a Society for the Promotion of Underappreciated Sex Acts.


End file.
